


Arguing With the Real

by slash4femme



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, post modernism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-04
Updated: 2010-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8099650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slash4femme/pseuds/slash4femme
Summary: 1979 Francis wants to talk about their relationship in a postmodern light and Arthur just wishes they had a relationship to talk about.





	

**April 1979**  
  
“Do you ever think about us?”  
  
Arthur blinks up from the paper he’s been reading, “humm?”  
  
“Our relationship.” Francis smiles a little and exhales smoke, where he’s standing at the partially open window of Arthur’s office.  
  
Arthur really doesn’t know what to say to that, he guesses he’s spent quite a bit of time thinking about his and Francis’ relationship over the years but it’s often but under vastly different circumstances.  
  
“In what way?” He closes the newspaper folds it again, sets it aside on his desk.  
  
Francis turns away from the view of London and crushes out his cigarette in the heavy glass ashtray that sits on top of the lower bookcase next to the window. “that our progress as a couple might mirror our progression as nations.”  
  
“Well of course.” Arthur frowns and reopens his paper, “That’s obvious. Naturally when we’re at war with each other our relationship takes a turn for the worse.” Arthur takes a moment to be silently grateful he and France have technically been allies for a good while now. Not that things have been exactly happy between them. Arthur feels something twists inside him. Francis has been spending so much of the last few decades with Ivan. Not that Arthur is jealous or anything like that. After all he’s been spending just as much time with Alfred, who’s had needed him a lot with this whole cold war mess the younger nation had gotten himself into. He really hopes it ends soon this stand off between Alfred and Ivan it’s 1979 for God’s sake they couldn’t do it forever. He thinks about himself and Alfred again and about Francis and Ivan. It’s different though he thinks bitterly, after all he’s pretty damn sure Francis doesn’t think of himself as a father figure to Ivan. He realizes he’s been scanning his way through the finance section without really seeing it and shakes himself. Francis is here now, sitting smoking on Arthur’s new leather couch opposite Arthur, in his perfectly tailored black suit.  
  
“ _non_.” Francis inhales, exhales smoke at the ceiling, one arm thrown out across the back of the couch, legs elegantly crossed at the knee. Arthur usually doesn’t let people smoke in his office, he’s usually very strict about that, but he’s making an exception for Francis. “I didn’t not mean as simplistically as that.”  
  
“Well what did you mean then?” Arthur frowns and puts aside the paper and picks up a report sighs and sets it aside again. He might need a drink first, or several.  
  
“have you not noticed that we are not as violent as we once were?”  
  
Arthur blinks up at him at that. “Well of course not,” he points out as patiently as possible, “We aren’t at war anymore, I’m not trying to invade you and visa versa.”  
  
His mind is instantly filled with memories of Francis holding him down, carving into his body with a red-hot poker, licking away the blood afterwards. Of Francis being dragged to kneel at Arthur’s feet in chains. Arthur had kicked the other man back pressed one foot against Francis’ chest until he heard ribs break, ripping the other man’s shirt off him and kissed him until his lips bleed. Arthur shifts awkwardly in his seat, crosses his legs underneath his desk. He wonders if he looks as uncomfortable as he feels and thinks he probably does. Judging from the fact that Francis is watching him from across the room a faint smiles on his lips.  
  
“Things are different now.” Arthur offers weakly.  
  
“ _oui_.” Francis stubs out yet another cigarette and stands all languid grace and moves across the room to stand beside Arthur’s desk. “things are different now.”  
  
Arthur looks up at that and Francis is suddenly right there standing next to Arthur’s chair bending down over him. Arthur swallows a little; Francis is very close. Francis smirks at him and Arthur shifts uncomfortably again, and watches the way a stray curl brushes against the other man’s cheek. As much as the memories of what they used to be, what they used to do to each other, both appall and aroused him, he doesn’t want that anymore. Arthur is glad their relationship has changed. He doesn’t want to own Francis like that, doesn’t feel the need to physically beat him into submission. These days he wants to take care of Francis, treat him like the fine and beautiful thing Francis is, give Francis a life that is filled with kindness and love. Arthur clutches the arms of his chair, holds on until his fingers ache. Francis straightens up, moving back a little.  
  
“How long have we been married?” The question seems to come out of nowhere and Arthur blinks, feels himself tense up again. He clenches his jaw and tightens his hold on his chair, mind reevaluates the idea of that drink. It sounds damn good right now. Arthur hates thinking about the _Entente Cordiale_ it hurts too much. Politically it is a forced charade of everything he wants, as far as their personal relationship goes it means nothing, and that never stops hurting. Francis is suddenly back in his personal space again, “how long _mon cher_ , how long have I been your husband?”  
  
Arthur finally reacts, both arms shoot out shoving the other nation away. “Bloody hell, Francis!”  
  
Francis’ smile doesn’t even falter and he lights another cigarette walking back across the room to sink down onto the couch again. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut concentrates on breathing for several long moments, otherwise he’s going to have to simply stand up and walk out. He hates the idea of fleeing his own office because of something Francis had said. On the other hand unless he calms down he won’t be able to be in the same room as Francis.  
  
“and doesn’t it feel the same?” Francis voice is soft as if he’s talking to himself, but he’s spoken in English is Arthur knows the comment is meant for him.  
  
“What?” He looks up again and Francis is fingering his lighter, long fingers turning and stroking across the polished silver surface. Francis looks up also and meets Arthur’s eyes, smiles at him again but this smile is smaller, sadder more subdued.  
  
“is it really that different _Angleterre_? The way we are from the way we used to be, we are less outwardly violent yes, but don’t we still hurt each other? Desire to control each other, own each other, just the same?”  
  
Francis inhales smoke, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “always about discipline.” Francis whispers, seeming suddenly very tired, “always about control _mon ami_. This is how we function, what makes us nations.”  
  
Arthur suddenly stands and moves without really realizing it, until he’s standing next to where Francis is sitting. Slowly he sinks down to straddle Francis lap as the other nation watches him in surprise and takes the hand Francis is not holding the cigarette with in both of his own. He doesn’t know what to say to Francis what he can say to makes this different. Because right now the space between them feels wrong, even more so than usual and Arthur doesn’t want that. He can barely deal with things the way they are between him and Francis. The last thing he wants is for Francis to get moody and philosophical and makes it worse. So he kisses Francis, winds his fingers in the other nations soft, smooth hair so he can tug on a handful of curls, tips his own head back and to the side inviting Francis to deepen the kiss. Francis drops the still smoldering cigarette into the ashtray grips Arthur’s hips, kisses him back hard and desperate and Arthur let’s him. He lets Francis push his hands underneath the hideously unfashionable knit jumper Arthur is wearing. He lets Francis turn them both on the couch so that the leather squeaks. He just lies there as Francis undoes his built. Arthur’s mind goes to the unlocked door, and he thinks that it’s the middle of the day, thinks about where they are and who could walk in on them, but he lets Francis anyway. They both need it.  
  
**December 1984**  
  
“Francis!”  
  
Francis stops long enough for Arthur to catch up. Arthur slides to a stop on the slippery pavement and squints up at Francis. “I-” He trails off shifts a little, watches Francis, who is wearing a cream overcoat against the cold, with a blue silk scarf that accents his eyes. Arthur swallows clasps his hands together and Francis watches him for a long minute before he smiles.  
  
“We are very close to my apartment.” He points out gently, “Would you like to come inside?”  
  
Arthur nods and sticks his mittened hands back into his overcoat and walks along behind Francis until they get to Francis’ apartment building. Francis has lived in this apartment since the early fifties but the building itself is much, much older. The since of the small flat looks just old enough to make Arthur feels comfortable and just posh enough that there is no mistaking that Francis lives there. Arthur takes off his coat, mittens and scare and hands them to Francis before going to sit awkwardly on Francis’ couch.  
  
“May I get you something?” Francis breezes into the room and Arthur notes the form fitting jumper he’s wearing and the really quite stunning things it does to the lines of Francis’ chest. “Tea, coffee?”  
  
Arthur shifts again, folds his hands between his knees, feels suddenly like a school boy who’s done something wrong. “Tea would be lovely, thanks.”  
  
Francis only nods before heading into the connecting kitchen. “I hear your government is going to begin conversations with Ivan’s bosses,  _Angleterre_.” Francis’ calls back into the living room and Arthur nods even though Francis can’t see it.  
  
“Someone has to, and it’s not like Alfred will.” Francis makes a disapproving noise and Arthur rubs his forehead, “I know.” For several minutes he listens to Francis move around the kitchen, the clatter of doors being opened and china being moved. “Francis?” Francis comes back into the room carrying two cups and sets one down on front of Arthur, settling on the couch beside the smaller nation. Francis sips from his own cup curling his legs up under him and leaning back against the arm of the couch. Arthur takes a gulp of his own tea to fortify himself.  
  
“Remember in ’79 when you talked about control being what makes us function as nations?” Francis blinks at him for several minutes and then slowly nods, “Well I’ve been thinking about that.” Arthur twists the cup between his hands, “a lot actually, and I’ve been doing some reading trying to figure out what bothered me about that, about us.” He doesn’t look at Francis he concentrates on the floor. In truth he’d always known what bothered him about that, the same thing that bothered him about the _Entente Cordiale_. Just one more way that his and Francis’ relationship wasn’t the real, caring relationship Arthur wanted it be. Another way of saying that it wasn’t anything more than an elaborate power play, a political game of make-believe. He doesn’t say any of this though, can’t bring himself to, instead he clutches at Francis’ teacup and stares at the floor.

  
“I’ve been thinking.” He wets his lips, “about the difference between the public and the private, the seen and the unseen.” Beside him on the couch Francis moves a little watching him, Arthur can feel the other nations eyes on him even as he refuses to raise his own. “we have this relationship which is publicly-” he makes a vague gesture in the air with one hand, “but we’ve never talked about there being room for the unseen, you know private matters, that are well private.”  
  
“Everything we do is public Arthur.” Francis says and Arthur could swear there is regret in his voice. “We are nations after all.”  
  
“It doesn’t have to be.” Arthur tries, oh he tries, not to sound as desperate as he feels, “Francis we’re _married_.” And that came out sounding a lot more desperate than he had intended, a lot closer to the truth of things, “and there are certain things that go along with that.”  
  
“And don’t I accompany you to all the right events, am I not seen with you enough, don’t I please you?” Francis sounds so tired and he runs his fingers through his hair.  
  
Arthur is moving without thinking, propelled forward by clear, clean rage. He has the front of Francis’ lovely, silk-blend jumper clenched in his hands before he can stop himself and he shakes the other man hard. “That is not what I’m talking about.” He bites out, “I don’t want to shag you, you French bastard. I’ve had enough meaningless sex to last me another thousand years, at least. If I wanted that I could go to anyone.”  
  
Francis hands clamp hard around Arthur’s wrists pry him away from Francis’ shirt “Our people, our history decide, creates, everything we are. Who we love, who we hate.” Francis voice has risen in anger but Arthur sense it isn’t necessarily directed at him.  
  
“No.” He shakes his head hard, for the first time in a very long time feeling like a petulant child. “Just no.” He feels like he’s going to cry right there and then, kneeling over Francis on his couch, both wrists held tightly by the other nation. “I love you.” He doesn’t even stop to think about the enormity of what he’s just said. He doesn’t take in the way Francis’ eyes widen and his hands loosen their hold, or the way his own voice quavers when he says it. “I love you and that has nothing to do with my people or your people or what our governments want or what everyone expects of us.”  
  
“Everyone expects us to hate each other.” Francis voice is quiet, almost apprehensive, and Arthur sees the fear in Francis’ eyes. They are very close to truly unstable ground. “It’s about control and the way we control each other. The way we have always controlled each other is through mutual distrust.”  
  
Arthur isn’t listening anymore though instead he leans forward and kisses Francis, slides their lips together, firm but gentle, touches and press with his tongue until Francis opens up to him. He doesn’t force it, he doesn’t demand anything, and Francis gives under him, slowly relaxes his grip on Arthur’s wrists slackens and tongue flicks out to touch Arthur’s. They kiss for several long moments until Arthur is lightheaded with it.  
  
“I’m done talking theoretically about us.” He says a little breathlessly when they draw apart. Arthur’s far from stupid, he knows there are a hundred good arguments he can make to counter Francis argument, a thousand points he can bring up facts and dates he could cite instead he kisses Francis again. Francis’ hands slips from their grip on Arthur’s wrists down to wrap around Francis’ waist. Francis’ kisses him back likes it’s the last thing they’ll ever do all open mouthed and sloppy, nothing like he usually kisses people. Arthur’s hands smooth across Francis’ shoulders, cup the back of his neck. Francis is shaking just a little bit when they pull apart and Arthur thinks that’s fair because his own hands won’t hold still either. Arthur raises one hand and strokes it across Francis face, watches how it shakes against the other nation’s skin. Francis catches Arthur hand, clasps it between both of his.  
  
“Hush.” Francis says, places one hand on Arthur’s waist, draws them closer together. “hush, I am here. Right here.”  
  
Arthur leans his cheek against Francis’ shoulder, feels the way Francis rubs his back and strokes his fingers through Arthur’s hair, and just breathes.  
  
Later Arthur watches Francis sleep, the other nation curled protectively around him. He watches the way the moonlight makes Francis’ hair look almost white against the pillow, traces the faint lines just beginning to appear around Francis’ mouth and at the corners of his eyes. Francis is beautiful like this but most of all he is simply Francis. Arthur kisses him on the forehead and curls tighter into the circles of his arms. He makes a promise then, not in writing or even spoken out loud, a promise that things will be different between him and Francis. That they will make this work, he touches Francis cheek and promises, even when they can’t stand each other, even when their governments change, even when their people stand against them. There will be space for this, he will make sure of it.  
  
Even so, he strokes Francis' hair back from the other man’s face, and wonders if some things are really changeable, or, like Francis says, there might be something out there stronger then his resolve. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is my personal ode to some of the ways Foucaultian historical theory could be used in regard to the relationship between England and France in Hetalia. This is by no means exhaustive or over-arching and is based on my understanding of Foucault’s theory. 
> 
> 2\. Foucault’s Discipline and Punish was first published in France in 1979. Discipline and Punish is still considered on of the best work for understanding how post-modern theory explains societal power structures and policing of norms. (http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/foucault/#3.3)
> 
> 3\. Foucault died in 1984. (http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/foucault/#1) 
> 
> 4\. The Entennte Cordiale was the 1904 agreement between Britain and France which officially ended political hostilities and paved the way for diplomatic cooperation. (http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/188822/Entente-Cordiale)  
> Tags: france/england, hetalia, history has a homoerotic bias


End file.
